


Mercy

by Rainah (RainahFiclets)



Series: Lonely 'verse [6]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Christianity, M/M, Minor Character Death, Prostitution, Sex Work, Statutory Rape, minor suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-23 06:41:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10714245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainahFiclets/pseuds/Rainah
Summary: Prequel to the events of Lonely Just Like Me. Alex and John are both lost, both searching, and as the years go by they both start losing hope.





	Mercy

**Author's Note:**

> Will make less sense if you haven't read Lonely Just Like Me, but it's readable. 
> 
> Longform warnings: If you've read the main fic, you know what's up. There is nothing new, just things mentioned in the fic being expanded upon. Particularly young teenagers in exploitative relationships with adults and underage sex work. There is also some scenes in John's church and some internalized homophobia.
> 
> Shoutout to the anon who asked me to write John trying to give Alex an underwater blowjob and failing. This is for you. And to my Oaxara, as always, who beta'd this.

Alex is fourteen, walking home from school alone. Well, sort of alone. James is up ahead, laughing and joking with his friends. Alex scowls as he picks up his pace. His brother is two years older and far more popular. Worse, he’s already hit his growth spurt and never seems to want to slow down for Alex’s legs to catch up.

 _I should be with Thom right now,_ he thinks bitterly, trying to at least keep his brother in sight. _Or at least with Ned._ Ned got picked up in a private car every day, and whisked off to his home at the tip of the island. More than anything Alex wishes he could get in the car with him, off to the Stevens’ air conditioned villa by the ocean. Straight into Thom’s arms.

He bites his lip. Thom keeps insisting they have to keep the relationship a secret. That means Alex can’t be running over to his house all the time. To the rest of the world, Alex has an after school job at his company and is friends with his son. That’s all.

He turns onto his street just in time to see James and his friend Rodney disappear into their small home. He’s close enough to hear the yelp of alarm, then the scream, and Jame’s voice yelling “Grab Alex! Don’t let him in!”

“James?” Alex picks up his pace, breaking into a run. His brother’s in the doorway, white as a sheet. “James, what’s wrong?”

His brother catches him, holding Alex against his chest. Alex can’t even see into the house. “Don’t look,” James says. His voice is shaking. “Don’t look, Alex, it’s- it’s Peter, he’s-”

“He’s what, James, let me in!” But James is two years older and far bigger, he has no trouble holding Alex back.

“He’s dead, Alex. Peter’s dead. Rodney’s gone to tell the police. He killed himself he-” James lets out a sob, his arms going slack.

Alex doesn’t push forward. Instead he lets James lead him out to sit on the side of the road. They wait like that, not speaking, until the policemen finally arrive. Both boys are interviewed, but it’s clear the officer doesn’t care. Another young man with too much responsibility on his shoulders, a man who’d recently lost his job, no wonder he’d taken that final step.

“What happens now?” Alex asks aloud. His mind is whirling. _Where will we live now?_ When they’d been dropped off at Peter’s doorstep five months ago, it was with the full knowledge that they were out of other options.

“What?” James asks hollowly. He’s still sitting on the ground, head in his hands.

“Where are we gonna live?” Alex doesn't’ want to move again. Thom is here. Though Thom would visit him, surely, wherever he was. They’re boyfriends after all, and that’s what boyfriends do.

“I don’t know.” James gives a helpless little shrug. “Does it matter?”

Alex shuffles over, and James puts an arm around him. “I’ll figure it out,” Alex declares.

James huffs out a laugh. “Sure, Alex. You get right on that. _They’re_ going to figure it out, and then they move us.” He looks over his shoulder at the house, then shivers. “Don’t want to live there anymore anyway.”

The two brothers sit like that for a time, moments that seem to stretch out into forever. Until Alex hears a car pull up, a door being slammed, and a voice calling his name. His head jerks up. “Thom?”

For just a moment, as always, Alex is struck dumb when he looks at Thom. His boyfriend is so handsome, so sharp and distinguished in his suit. He must have come right from work.

And for just a moment nothing matters any more, because Alex is running into his arms and burrowing his face into the soft fabric of Thom’s shoulder. Rough, steady arms come up to hold him, and Alex feels the muscles in his shoulders relax.

"Is that their father?" he hears one of the policemen ask.

"Nah, that's Thomas Stevens," someone replies. "His kid goes to school with them."

"Thom..." Alex whispers into the rough skin of Thom's neck. "What happens now?"

"We find you a place to live," Thom says, as if it's the easiest thing in the world. And maybe it is, when you're Thomas Stevens.

"They're going to take us away." Alex tries to twists out of his arms. Thom's grip tightens, for a moment, then he releases Alex. "They're going to send us away, to another island, another _country_ , who knows, we don't have any more relatives to stay with!"

"Then you won't stay with relatives," Thom says firmly. "You'll stay with me."

Stay with Thom?

In his huge, beautiful, air conditioned house? Live with Ned, his friend, and Thom, the love of his life? Swimming in their pool, being driven home from school, eating good food every day? It would be harder to hide their little secret, sure, but maybe Thom has realised how silly it is to keep it a secret in the first place. They love each other, after all. In two more years Alex will be sixteen, the official age of consent, and no one will be able to say anything about it.

"Please," Alex breathes. "Oh, please, I would love to live with you. When can we move in?"

" _We?_ " Thom asks. Alex frowns as he shifts uncomfortably. "Alex, I'm talking to you as an adult here, okay?"

"Okay." Thom always talks to him as an adult, never treats Alex like he's stupid or silly because he's only fourteen.

"I'm asking you, as the person I love, to move in with me and my family. I'm not in the business of taking in orphaned children, Alex. I want you to live with me because I care about you, and because I want to spend more time with you, and frankly because I know you don't have a lot of options. But I'm speaking as a man to his partner here, not to you and your brother."

Alex frowns as he understands Thom’s meaning: James wouldn't be able to come with him. Alex swallows, running through the calculations in his head. If he refuses Thom, it could very well be the end of their relationship. Thom won't want to date someone so obviously immature, someone who isn't serious enough to want to live with him. And he and James could end up split up anyway, given to different families or left to fend for themselves. It's likely they won't be able to stay together anyway. 

"Yes,” he says, then stronger: "Yes, I would love to live with you."

"Good." Thom stands, brushing off his dress pants. "I'll make the arrangements."

Thom is as good as his word. Alex is whisked away to his villa that night and given a room bigger than Peter's whole house. There's a bathroom attached, with hot and cold running water that never runs out. And Thom is everywhere: smiling at him across the dinner table, slipping notes into the lunch he takes to school, sneaking away with him at night.

Alex tries to keep in touch with James. He never tells his brother exactly why they were separated (He lets Thom handle everything) and he tries not to dwell on it too much. Thom doesn’t like it when he dwells.

He never sees his brother again.

 

John is fifteen and sitting in a church pew, his mind drifting between how sweaty his palms are and the pattern of wood grain on the pew in front of him. His pastor’s voice drawls incessantly on, drilling into his ears.

“Temptation is what gives birth to sin. That stands to reason, that is why all throughout scripture God tells us to flee from sin. Where temptation is, there is a good possibility that sin will be born from that.”

He glances around, wishing for the upteenth time that churches had clocks in them or that he could be allowed to check his phone while in church. But Henry Laurens is a senator for all of South Carolina, and he will not suffer an inattentive or ungodly son. 

“If you can’t overpower them, you can’t outsmart them, you wait until they mess up and then cash in on that weakness. Satan knows this! Satan knows where we are weak!”

Two pews ahead, a sandy brown head of hair turns to give John a grin. He knows Francis Kinloch holds the same dubious views of church as he does, and the two had bonded through the endless number of church sermons and socials they were paraded through. John smiles back, grateful he’ll have someone to talk to while his father makes his rounds. 

“God gives us a strong instruction, to not just remove sin from ourselves but from others! And that is what I challenge you to do today. Do not be a stumbling block for other people as they turn away from sin. In God’s name, amen.”

The service lasts only a little bit longer after that, and as the crowd breaks to eat donuts and chat. Henry Laurens rises. “Just a few minutes, John,” he says, as he always does. “You can wait by the car if you get bored.”

“Sure.” He’ll have to wait at least half an hour, so John stays. He swipes a donut on the table, and makes his way to Francis. “How’d you find today?”

Francis glances around quickly; they’re not alone, he can’t be honest. “The usual. He’s a very good speaker.”

“And the content?” John wants to know. 

“The usual.” Francis shrugs. “What was that whole business about social media being a place for sin? Yeah, like I’m going to go home and delete my Myspace page.”

“I definitely prefer his more optimistic ones.” John shifts, staring at his donut rather than at Francis.

“Hmm?”

“I don’t like thinking about sin,” John admits. He hates having to sit there and hear about the innumerable things he could be doing to damn his soul. He likes church sometimes - when they do charity work in the community, when they go on camping retreats in the woods, when the head of his youth group talks about how Jesus was a radical, really, and they have more in common with him than they think.

But sometimes it’s hard to reconcile everything in his head, the things he hears in church and the things he sees in the world around him. Or even the things his father says on the campaign trail.

 _It doesn’t matter_ , John tells himself forcefully. _You are godly._ He had to be, with all of the churches, youth groups, and bible studies he’s attended over the years. _So don’t worry. You’re doing everything right_.

“Are you doing anything tomorrow?” Francis asks him, with a lopsided grin that makes something in John feel tight.

He’s got a big project that’s due on Wednesday and he’d promised Martha yesterday that he’d take her out riding. “No,” John says, trying to stay casual. 

“Cool. Want to come over to mine after school? I got X Men on DVD.”

“Absolutely.” Martha will be fine, they can go riding on Tuesday. It’s important to make time for friends. Especially friends that make John as excited as Francis does. He’s both a little bit cooler (without a senator for a dad and all the respectability that comes along with it) and just a little bit more careless. When he’s with Francis, John feels bold. Like anything can happen.

“It’s a date,” Francis says, and John tries not to flush.

 

Alex is sixteen, and so cold he almost can’t stand it.

He's been on the street for... three weeks? A month? now and it hasn't been that bad. Would have been much easier if he was homeless back on Nevis, but-

No. He pushes the thought away. Homeless on Nevis would _not_ be better. If he was homeless on Nevis he wouldn't have Thom, and Thom's coming for him. The divorce was clearly just taking longer than expected. Mrs. Stevens (as she always had him call her) must be putting up a fight.

And things have been okay, for the most part. There are plenty of people who are willing to toss a few dollars his way in exchange for doing simple tasks, provided he doesn't look too dirty. A friend showed him the soup kitchen, and explained the rules of living on the street. Never sleep at night, it's too dangerous. Never go to a shelter, bad things happen in shelters. Don't go anywhere with Majorie, she'll be pimping you out before sunset. Alex had followed the rules dutifully, going back to the hotel bar every weekend to look for Thom, he’d been okay. Surviving, and that was what mattered.

And then the snows came. What started as wonder (snow! for the first time in his life, snow!) quickly turned into terror. Where was he supposed to sleep now? Everything was wet and cold. He'd found an out-of-the-way library and slept fitfully through the day, but it had closed at 5pm and he was now walking down increasingly chilly streets.

"Hey kid," a voice calls. 

Alex turns. It’s a man he'd seen at the hotel bar last weekend. Brown hair, older than Thom but just as well dressed. 

"You have a place to sleep tonight, kid?" the man asks, very matter-of-factly. "I noticed you didn't go up to a room. Or buy your own drinks."

Alex isn't old enough to buy his own drinks, even if he had the money, but he lets it go. "No, sir," he replies carefully, unsure of what exactly the man wants. "But I'll figure it out, don't worry." If this man wants to call his parents or something, Alex has news for him.

" _No, sir,_ " the man repeats, smiling growing on his face. "I like the sound of that. Especially coming from a mouth like yours. Why don't you come up to my room? I’ll mix some drinks, warm us up a little."

There it is. The proposition. And God, it’s tempting. But there are more important things. “No thank you, sir,” he replies as politely as he can manage. “I have a boyfriend.”

“Do you now?” The man makes a show of looking around. “I don’t see him.”

Alex takes a step back, shrugging helplessly. Thom will be here soon. He _will_. And when he gets here, he won’t be happy to hear about all the men Alex cheated on him with.

A gust of wind sets him shivering, pulling the sweatshirt tighter around his body. He considers, again, whether or not a night of warmth might be worth Thom’s anger. But no, he’s seen the news, it’s not going that far below freezing tonight. He’ll survive. He shakes his head stubbornly. 

The man laughs. “Alright, kid. Have it your way. I figured a pretty thing like you might want a warm bed to sleep in and some money to get back on your feet, but if you don’t…” he turns, starts walking away.

It’s almost unbearable to watch his only chance at warmth and comfort walk away. Before he even knows what he’s doing Alex takes two steps towards the man. “Wait!”

The man turns, expectant.

He can feel the blood rushing to his face. “What did you mean about some money?”

Thom will forgive him.

 

John is seventeen, and Francis’ lips are the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted. They’re hidden in the empty barn on the Laurens family property, miles away from any other soul. As John hikes up Francis’ shirt and slips a hand against his skin, both boys groan.

 _I love this_ , John thinks, pressing kisses against every bit of skin he can reach. _I love you_. But he doesn’t say it. He knows this doesn’t mean anything to Francis, who has clearly done this before and probably has other people he’s kissing.

But for now, hidden away where no one can see them, it’s nice to pretend. John closes his eyes as Francis kisses him, and pretends that he’s in New York City. In Central Park maybe, kissing his gorgeous boyfriend under a tree. Out in the open for everyone to see.

The idea sends a mix of longing and shame to pool in his stomach. John kisses harder, trying to drown it out with sensation. He parts his lips and lets Francis lick into his mouth, something that sets every nerve in his body alight.

Francis' hand slides lower, but John jerks his hips away. "Kiss me," he whines, when Francis breaks away to reach for his fly.

He gets a kiss, but then Francis pulls away and says, "Don't you want to do more than kiss?"

"Maybe. I don't know. Does it have to be now?" John props himself up on one elbow, flicking a curl out of his face as he watches his boyfriend.

"We're miles away from anyone else, there's not going to be a better chance." Francis sighs. His fingers trace patterns on John's jean-clad thigh. "I want you. Don't you want to?" The fingers trace higher, over the noticeable bulge in John's jeans. 

John lets out a groan. "Yes. I just-"

"Just... what?" Francis' hand cups him, an aching pressure. "I know you want to."

It feels so good, John doesn’t want to stop. "Okay." The word is barely audible, panted between breaths.

But as Francis helps him out of his jeans, John freezes again. "What now?" Francis demands.

"I just-" Those words again. Just what? How to put into words the mix of guilt and shame that curdled low in his stomach? _It's a sin, John._ "I don't want to go to hell," he whispers finally.

Francis actually rolls his eyes. "If there's a hell, we've both got seats reserved already. So? Make it count for something. I'd rather go for sodomy than 'covetous thoughts' or whatever our pastor says about Facebook being a sin.”

“I-”

“You have Facebook, don’t you?” Francis demands.

“Yes, but-”

“You do plenty of sinful things. You take the lord’s name in vain, you covet.” Francis’ lips find his ear in a harsh whisper. “You covet me. I’ve seen the way you look at me, in class. You think that’s not a sin?”

He’s right, of course. John loves to play that game, of heated glances in the hallways of their stuffy school. He’s spent too many lunch periods imaging them in exactly this position.

“So?” Francis demands. “What’s the problem?”

John pushes away the feeling in his stomach. “Nothing.” Francis is right. If he’s already going to hell, might as well go all in. He leans up, allowing Francis to kiss him again, to renew the hunger sparking deep within him.

Only later, after Francis has whispered a goodbye and left him to walk back to the house alone, it still doesn’t feel right. There’s a knot in his stomach, a knot he does a very good job of ignoring. He eats dinner with the family, plays a videogame with Jem, and tucks Mary into bed so he can read her favourite story to her. It’s about a princess who wears a paper bag instead of a dress, and Mary is determined to do the same for Halloween. She’s going to tell all the princes she sees that they’re bums.

“That’s not very polite,” John tells her. “Or a very good reflection on our father.”

Mary shrugs, more focused on the book. She’s five; the details of their father’s political images do not interest her. She doesn’t care about how her actions will affect him-

The sick feeling is back. John excuses himself and takes off for the kitchen. It’s empty when he gets there, the tile cool on his feet, and John tries to take a minute to breath.

 _It’s okay. You’re okay. Today didn’t change anything_.

But it did. Today pushed him to accept something he’s known for a long time.

_You’re gay._

He can’t take it back now. He’s crossed a line, and it’s terrifying.

Up on the top shelf is where his father keeps the good liquor. Fancy bottles of wine, scotches, brandies, and champagne. John pulls a Balvenie DoubleWood Single Malt Scotch Whisky from the shelf, forces the cap off, and tips it to his lips. It scorches his throat like fire, and John nearly drops the bottle he’s so busy coughing. As soon as the coughing subsides though, he’s got the bottle back up for another sip.

This feels good. Scorching away the memory of his shame, his sin, of Francis’ hands roaming all over his body. 

His father finds him like this: sitting on the floor of the kitchen, head presses against the cupboard, shattered bottle of scotch at his feet. He doesn’t remember breaking it, doesn’t know if it was on purpose or not. There’s a shard of glass in his hand though, one he drops to scramble to his feet. “Sir!”

“What have you gotten into, John?” Henry flicks the light, and John cries out as the brightness slices right through his skull. “Look at you.” He sighs, but then his face melts into a rueful smile. “I guess I was younger than you the first time I got well and truly drunk. And better you do it in private than where someone can see you; sins are far more forgivable if no one has to know. Go upstairs, I’ll find someone to clean you up.”

John goes, stumbling on the stairs. He lets the housekeeper wash his face and force a whole bottle of gatorade and a banana into him, something she claims will prevent a hangover. He doesn’t tell her why he was drinking; his father doesn’t ask.

Sins are more forgivable if no one has to know. 

 

Alex is eighteen and, really, he should have done better this time. How many times have people warning him about keeping his temper? Especially at work. 

He's been busing tables and hosting in a little Indian restaurant in Harlem, and it's been... okay. The pay in minimal, but it's more standard than hooking and the hours are more regular. The owners of the place are about as white as you can possible imagine (In _Harlem_ ) but they seem to like him. They say he adds character to the place. 

(He's explained to them, several times, that he's not in fact Indian. They just reassure him that it's fine, no one will notice. He... doesn't quite know what to do with that one.)

It's just the customers that are the problem. At least when he's hooking he gets some semblance of control over who he serves - he can leave, refuse them service, and be no worse off. Here, he's expected to stand there and smile blandly while a local stay at home mom shouts at him over an expired coupon.

Expired coupon rage he can take. What he cannot tolerate is the owner sexually harassing a barely legal hostess. Coming back from the store room he found his boss crowding the girl up against the refrigerator and-

Well.

Alex may have punched him. 

What was pissing him off was that it didn’t do any _good_. He’d gotten fired, the crying girl was still working there, and there was a new ‘help wanted: bussers’ sign in the window. Hardly any trouble to the man who’d been groping a teenager.

So now it’s back to the street corner, back to sucking people off in the backs of cars, and really it doesn’t feel like an upgrade. 

Andre grins as he walks up. “Braveheart! What are you doing here? I thought you said you’d quit for good! On to better things and all that.” 

Alex flips him the bird. “Shut up, Andre.” Like he wants to be reminded that he’s one giant failure.

Andre ruffles a hand through his hair. “Don’t worry about it, Alex. You’re better off here anyway.”

“Piss off!” Alex tries to smooth his hair down; thankfully it’s always lain fairly flat. “I told you, not all of us want to be whores for the rest of our lives.”

“Why not?” Andre’s smirk is just on the wrong side of condescending. “What else are you going to do?”

Go to university. Get a law degree, open his own practice. Get married, and give his kids an actual childhood. Eat Starbucks for lunch. Be respectable. Be respected.

“Nothing,” he says, because Andre will just laugh at him otherwise, “clearly.”

“Don’t worry about it, Braveheart.” Andre turns to scan an approaching car. Alex automatically tilts his head to do the same. “Things happen or they don’t. That’s about it.”

It’s good enough for now.

 

John is nineteen when he ends up walking down the street, hands shoved in his pockets and his eyes down, trying to get through the gay part of town without attracting any attention. It's well past dark, almost midnight, and with the sun down the city's come alive. Not John; he crosses the street to avoid the open doors to bars that send light and the sounds of conversation onto the street. His lack of subtlety is it's own kind of signpost, of course: _I AM INSECURE PLEASE HARASS ME._

Someone wolf whistles. John walks faster. He should have taken a detour, somewhere through the gentrified parts of New York City. Dog walkers and gourmet yogurt shops that closes promptly at 5pm.

He's so determined to keep his eyes on the ground that he doesn't notice the man until he crashes right into him and sends them both sprawling on the still-heated pavement.

"Are you okay?" John's voice rings out with a sweet southern accent he's been suppressing for months.

The man he's knocked over grins. "Aren't you the cutest thing."

John's next words are considerably less polite, and accompanied by a hand gesture, as he pushes himself to his feet.

The man rolls onto his knees, groaning briefly, then onto his feet. "I'm okay." He waves away John's concerned hand. "I'm okay. Nothing broken." A smile stretches across his face. "Don't worry your lil heart."

John flips him the bird again. He makes sure any hint of an accent is concealed before he says, "You must be going to some party." It's a warm night, but the man he'd crashed into is wearing black booty shorts, a black mesh tank top, and decorative black straps that criss cross the whole thing. He's got alabaster skin, a shock of brown hair, and the gaunt cheeks of someone who works out too much to be healthy.

"I make my own party." The grin turns salacious. "Want a taste, handsome? $100."

"No!" John backs away as fast as he can, hands up. Of course. He should have guessed the man's a sex worker - this is exactly what his father warned him about. "No, no thank you, I'm just going-"

"To find someone else? I know everyone in town. Come on, you must be looking for someone, or something. Everyone is." He nods his head towards the bars. "That's not your scene, I'm guessing."

No. There’s no way in hell he's ready to go to a gay bar. He’s been in New York for over a year now, free from his father’s grasp, but John’s not ready for _that_ yet. He shakes his head.

"Didn't think so. It takes a special kind of baby gay to go right to the glory holes. But you'd go for something more private, I'll bet. Come on, handsome, what's your type?"

John just stares. He wonders, abstractly, if there's any way he can get home before saying anything else. If there's any chance in hell he won't do this.

"Taller, shorter, Black, White, Asian-"

"Latino." The man grins as John says it. "Not too much taller or shorter?"

"You go for older guys?"

"Not really?" Francis is the only guy he's ever been with, and they met at school. 

"Got just the one for you. Come with me." He grabbed John by the hand, pulling him insistently down the street. "Hey! Louis!"

Heads snapped up on the street corner: two boys in conversation. 

"Got a newbie for you. Good southern boy, your Momma would be proud. He says he likes privacy and sweet sweet love."

A pair of eyes looks him over. Louis is tall and extremely handsome, his black curls giving him a boyish quality. “What are you looking for?”

All John can do is say, “I don’t know.”

“Alright.” Louis links his arms with John. “I start at 200 an hour. We can make it up as we go along.” 

“Yes, please.” John nods fervently. “I don’t know- well, anything. How this works.”

“It’s fine.” Louis has a pleasing sort of laugh, warm and low. “I’ll show you the ropes. The first thing you have to know is that every sex worker has their own rules…”

John nods along, letting Louis pull him through the darkness to what he hopes is a nice hotel with a bank machine. 

 

Alex is twenty five, and there’s a new boy on the street corner. And yes, _boy_ is the right word, Christ, he looks young.

“Don’t get involved,” Maria hisses, but Alex is already sauntering over. 

“Hey kid. Whatcha doing?” He’s bundled up in a heavy jacket, but he’s wearing eyeliner and gazing into each car as they pass by. He’s hooking, just like they are.

“Mind your own business,” the boy snaps, pulling the coat tighter around him. The air feels like it could cut Alex’s bare skin. “Unless you want some?”

“Wrong side of the business, kid,” Alex snorts, and it makes the boy turn. He’s glaring.

“Not kid. I’m no one’s kid.”

“Sure.” Alex isn’t going to argue with that. “You got a name then?”

He hesitates. “Pierre.”

“Alex,” Alex says, and holds out his hand. “How old are you, Pierre? I”m not going to turn you in anywhere!” he adds quickly as the boy tenses up. “Look, I just, I-” _I was where you were_. “There’s a lot of things you can learn is all. So you don’t get killed out there.”

“I don’t need to learn anything,” Pierre sniffs. “What do you know anyway?”

Alex meets his gaze levelly. “Been doing it for almost ten years.”

Pierre nods, though it doesn’t dim the hostility in his eyes. Alex takes it as permission.

“First thing’s first, off with your coat.”

“But-” Pierre makes a face. “It’s _winter_. And it’s _cold_.”

“Yup.” Alex pops the word. “Doesn’t matter. They’re buying your body, they want to see your body. Off with the jacket.”

Pierre glares. Alex waits. After a long pause, Pierre strips out of the jacket. “What do I do with it?”

“When you’re smart, you bring a bag,” Alex nudges his own bag with one foot. “That’s got a water bottle, wet wipes, metro card, a twenty, and a knife. And condoms and lube of course, but that’s rare.”

“Wait, you have sex without condoms?!” Pierre’s head jerks up, alarmed.

Alex makes a sound of aggravation. “Oral sex! I won’t do bareback anal if I can help it, and you shouldn’t either. But most guys only want a blowjob in the backseat, they don’t have the time or money for anything more elaborate.” The poor boy still looks alarmed. Alex sighs. “Look, you set your own rules. If you don’t want to blow someone without a condom, you can make that rule. But you won’t have very many customers, and there’s going to be people who don’t care for your rules.”

Pierre huffs. "Well, thanks for the tip." He turns his body away from Alex, an unmistakable sign of _leave me alone._

So Alex walks back to Maria, who wastes no time in swatting him. "I can't believe you did that."

He's in no mood for getting teased. "So? Five minutes of my time so the kid doesn't get killed out there, is that too much to ask? Don't you wish someone had done that for you?" Maria, whom he'd rescued from a customer getting violent. Maria, who's husband dropped her off on a street corner and told her not to come home until she had enough money for rent. 

"You can't save them all, Alex," Maria says quietly. He pretends not to hear her.

Alex insists they stay where they are, despite Maria's insistence that they'll do better by the bars two streets over. He keeps watch on the boy, watching him get into cars and making sure he gets back out in one piece. Some guy in an SUV takes Maria away to a hotel, and they don't come back. So when the late-night establishments start shutting off their lights, Alex wanders back over to the boy. 

"You have a place to sleep tonight?"

"What do you care?" He's got his coat back on, stubbornly, but he's still shivering. The kid was probably not more than a hundred pounds, as light and delicate as a bird.

"I don't," Alex responds, even though he does. "Sleep where you want. But," he lets that dangle for a moment, until the kid glances over, "if you want, you can sleep on my couch. For one night! It's a bachelor, no one else there." Not since Andre moved out. He paid through the nose for it, but it was worth it for the security. 

Pierre debates it for a moment. Finally he asks, "What's it going to cost me?"

"Making the breakfast in the morning." Alex smiles in what he hopes is a reassuring way. "I'm just kidding, as long as there's coffee I'm happy."

"Fine then. I can't cook anyway."

Alex grabs his bag and starts leading the way uptown. "Buddy, you think you can't cook? You have no idea. It took me three tries to make kraft dinner..."

 

John is twenty three, and the loneliness is crushing him. He goes to school, hangs out with Lafayette, and goes to bed alone each night. The weight of his secrets feels like a vice, tightening over his chest until he can't breathe at all.

 

Alex is twenty five, and he's nearly given up. What’s the point? He does the same thing every day, and every night as well. It starts to blur together. He tries to hold on to the things that matter; at least he’s surviving. At least he has friends. And he isn’t going to give up now and give Officer Adams the satisfaction of driving him off. 

 

Lafayette sends John on a date with a girl from class, and John only makes it half an hour before he bolts. He can't do it, not even for Laf. But he swings by Upper Manhattan (buying a gift for his friend, he tells himself) and there he catches the eye of a boy with long dark hair and knowing eyes-

 

The silver Fiat flashes in the streetlights, and Alex looks up with interest. It's been two hours since his last client, and he's bored. But the guy inside the car is cute, and young, and blushes shyly whenever Alex says something saucy-

 

Alex is brilliant, and so beautiful, John almost can't handle how in love he is. Sparks fly, catch, ignite. It makes him feel brave. He says the words aloud, _I'm gay_ , tasting them on his tongue. They taste like freedom.

 

And then it all falls to pieces, and Alex is in a jail cell holding his head to keep it from hurting too badly. His ribs feel bruised, his nose is bleeding, and he's almost certainly going to jail. How was he supposed to know he was walking through a school zone? Not that the police care.

He was _so close_. So close to getting out, being the kind of person he wanted to be. Alone, yes, and maybe lonely, but he doesn’t need John. He could have made it himself. It’s just such a _waste_.

One of the police officers steps forward to rap on the bars. "Time to go, your boyfriend's here to pick you up."

Alex startles at the sound. His boyfriend? He’d called Maria, desperately, and she’d promised to get him out, but he had no idea what was going on.

There’s nothing to do but follow the guard out to the waiting area. Maria is there, tearstained but solid, and beside her...

Alex takes two steps forward and throws himself into John's arms. 

_Lover boy outed himself for you_ , Maria texts him the next day, while Alex is guzzling red bull and catching up in his new office. _That's not the kind of thing people do every day._

 _I know_ , Alex had texted back. And then, after a pause, _No one's ever come back for me before._

 

John is twenty four, and he can’t remember the last time he was this happy. He’s lured Alex back to his apartment for an evening, lit a few candles and pulled out a nice bottle of wine. Alex protested the luxury of it, as he always did, but John was able to persuade him with the promise of a massage and a warm bath. His boyfriend hasn’t been appreciated, been _loved_ , nearly enough in his life.

John is trying to fix that as much as possible.

“That feels good,” Alex groans, as John’s fingers work into the wet skin of his back. The bath has gone tepid, they’ve been in it for too long, but John’s not about to stop now. Not when he’s got Alex all relaxed.

He leans forward, presses a kiss to his boyfriend’s shoulder. “See, I told you this was a good idea.”

“And I told you your tub was still too small.” It’s true, they’re awfully squished. But that’s not a bad thing in John’s book. Alex tilts his head to the side, giving John better access for his kisses. “We need to go back to that hotel to do this.”

“Mmmm,” kiss, “the hotel where we met?”

“We met on a street corner-”

“And then went to the Hyatt.” John kisses the place where Alex’s neck meets his shoulder, biting a little just to hear Alex’s sharp intake of breath.

“I didn’t like that hotel. Didn’t think I belonged there. The tub was nice though.” He looks at John, blinking too-long lashes to confirm that, yes, he is indeed referencing the underwater blowjob that had happened there. It had certainly been… an experience.

To say the least.

John can feel his cheeks heating up. "It was... very nice."

"Very nice?" Alex arches an eyebrow, struggling not to laugh.

John splashes him. "Not everyone is as eloquent as you." So eloquent he was offered a job as director of communications for a US senator.

(John's dad is a senator. He knows how well vetted every member of their staff is. Alex must have been pretty damn impressive for Senator Washington to overlook his circumstances.)

"Are you still looking at Princeton?" he asks Alex, changing the subject.

Alex hums. "Maybe. I don't like some of the things their dean has said in the papers-"

"So?" If they had a bigger tub, John would shift around so they could face each other. As it is, he merely pulls Alex back to rest against his chest. "The dean's not the school."

"No, but-" a hesitation, "it's also very expensive."

There it is, the heart of it. "I'd be surprised if you didn't get scholarships-"

"They don't give scholarships to people with a GED, John!"

"But there are plenty you can apply for, with essays and things," John says confidently. He's certain he's read about that, about all the financial aid money that goes unclaimed each year. "And there are loans." At this point, he’s been dating Alex long enough to know better than to offer to pay any of it.

Alex sighs. "I know. It's just... that's a lot of money. Even if it's necessary, even if I will earn more in the long run... that's a huge amount of money, John."

John, who had been considering spending that much money on a new car last year, says nothing. Instead, he kisses Alex's shoulder again. "I was thinking of something..."

"Oh?" 

"Thinking about that night at the hotel..."

He kisses Alex's neck again and, when Alex leans his head back, kisses his lips. "I never got to return the favour," John says, with all the confidence and suavity he can muster.

Alex's dark eyes look even darker, blown with lust. "That not any easy thing to do, John, with the water-"

"Are you doubting my blowjob skills?" John demands.

Alex laughs. "I would never. If you think you want to try-"

"I want to try," John insists. "Move."

They have to get out of the tub to arrange it - Alex sitting, John kneeling with his legs riding up the back of the tub just to have enough space. 

“Just take your time,” Alex reminds him. “Don’t try and do too much, if you gag you can breath in water-”

“Alex,” John says patiently. “I know. Just enjoy it.” And with a determined shake of his head John takes a breath and lowers his head under water.

He opens his eyes. Everything is a lot blurrier than he’d expected it to be, and his eyes are getting irritated already. But the tub is small and it’s not hard to maneuver over to Alex. By the time he gets into position, he has to come up for air. “How do you _do_ this?”

“Grew up on an island,” Alex reminds him. “I swim a lot. Or, used to. But some skills you don’t lose.”

John huffs, giving Alex a look before going back under. It’s difficult. Somehow he doesn’t remember Alex going through this much trouble.

For one thing, there’s the vision problem - he’s relying a lot more on touch to even figure out where to suck. Then there’s the space problem, cramped up in a bathtub, and the fact that he keeps slipping and risking a face-plant on Alex’s dick.

Any time he manages to get into place, there’s the air problem. After a few attempts, each time having to come up for air just as he starts to get something going, John has to admit that he’s just not very good at holding his breath.

As he moves to try again, Alex puts a hand on his shoulder. “John?”

“What?” He’s not in the mood for more advice.

Alex looks extremely apologetic. “Maybe we should move this to the bed?”

John makes a sound of outrage. “I can do it!”

“I know you can!” Alex says quickly. “I have full faith in all of your blowjob skills. It’s just… the bath is getting kind of cold. And you’re so caring and wonderful and _sexy_ I’d much rather just lay you out on the bed and have my way with you?”

Well. That does sound like an appealing proposition. “Silvertongue,” John huffs, because really Alex is far too good at maneuvering people exactly where he wants them. 

Alex kisses the air. “I know you love my tongue.”

“I do.” John pulls him in for a kiss. “I really do.”

**Author's Note:**

> The excerpts from John's church are verbatim quotes from the pastor of south carolina senator Lindsey Graham, btw.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at thellamaduo.tumblr.com  
> As always, comments/kudos are loved.


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